


ludus

by bluejayblueskies



Series: Aspec Archives Week [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Canon Asexual Character, Drinking, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28735188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/pseuds/bluejayblueskies
Summary: Gerry generally doesn’t frequent pubs like this one, where the wooden table in front of him is sticky enough that his glass pulls slightly against his grip as he lifts it before it unsticks with a wet ripping noise. The pub is a small, dirty thing, aptly namedThe Rusty Bucket,and apparently, it’s the venue for trivia night every Thursday, of which Jon and his friends are regulars.Gerry’s never met Jon’s friends. But he supposes there’s a first time for everything.
Relationships: Gerard Keay & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Gerard Keay & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Series: Aspec Archives Week [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2103339
Comments: 19
Kudos: 95
Collections: Aspec Archives Week





	ludus

**Author's Note:**

> _ludus: n. playful or uncommitted love; love that is focused on flirtation, infatuation, and laughter_
> 
> Written for prompt 3 of Aspec Archives Week – community, drinks!
> 
> Content warnings in end notes
> 
> The aspec identities explored in this fic are aromantic Gerry, asexual (sex-favorable) Tim, aromantic Sasha, and asexual (sex-repulsed) Jon

Gerry’s never really been one for drinking. For one, he thinks beer is gross (and that a much better use for wheat and yeast is bread, which he _very_ much enjoys and happens to be quite skilled at making), and for two, he’s never quite been able to shake that ingrained notion that drinking is always a precursor to _something else._

Sometimes, that _something else_ is simply being drunk. Sometimes, it’s to loosen up, to make time with friends that much lighter and freer. But sometimes it’s not. Sometimes, it’s buying a stranger a drink and punching your number into their phone with fingers made unsteady by liquor. Sometimes, it’s wine on a date, with lips stained a deep red and cheeks flushed only in part due to the alcohol.

Sometimes, it’s _more._ And Gerry doesn’t like taking risks that he doesn’t have to. So he generally doesn’t frequent pubs like this one, where the wooden table in front of him is sticky enough that his glass pulls slightly against his grip as he lifts it before it unsticks with a wet ripping noise.

_Gross._

“You don’t have to come,” Jon had said for what had to have been the fifteenth time, even as they’d caught sight of the pub that sat just a few blocks from campus. It was a small, dirty thing, aptly named _The Rusty Bucket_ , and apparently, it was the venue for trivia night every Thursday, of which Jon and his friends were regulars.

_Right. Jon’s friends._ It wasn’t necessarily anyone’s fault that Gerry had yet to meet everyone else who’d left a mark on Jon’s life (though if asked, Gerry would insist that it was his, probably; he wasn’t known for being overly social). It was just different walks of life, different cobblestone paths that happened to intersect in a five-foot-four skinny Pakistani man with wire-rimmed glasses and a perpetual line between his eyes that fell just as easily into a smile as it did a scowl. But now that he had the chance, he found that he wanted to meet them. Maybe it was because Jon had seemed so excited, in his own way, to introduce them to Gerry. Or maybe it was just because Gerry wanted to get to know every part of Jon, to peel back every layer of the man who had wriggled underneath his skin and refused to budge no matter how hard Gerry tried.

Jon’s friends were one such layer, painted in lovely sunset hues that cast fondness and exasperation across Jon’s face in equal measure whenever he spoke of them. So Gerry wanted to meet them.

Hell, maybe he’d like them. _Jon_ liked them. And that was one hell of a stamp of approval.

“I know,” Gerry said. “But I’m here, aren’t I?”

And the look Jon gave him at that—something profoundly grateful and even more profoundly enamored—shot through Gerry like liquid cocaine. Though if Gertrude ever asks, Gerry certainly has no such metric to know what that would feel like.

Jon’s presence next to him in the booth is a grounding one, even as Gerry feels himself getting lost in the conversation ebbing and swelling around him like white-crested waves on a sandy shore, like he’s a seashell that’s only kept from washing away by a deft hand that snatches it from the sand and holds it close. Most of the _ebb_ and _swell_ seems to be coming from Tim and Sasha, who bicker like they’ve been married for years but who, according to Jon, have already passed through their _will-they-won’t-they_ stage and have settled quite firmly on _won’t-they._

“Sasha’s aro too,” Jon had said, almost too-casually, as he put away a plate he’d been drying. “And Tim’s ace. A- a bit different than me, though, with regards to…”

Jon made a vague motion with his hand that Gerry recognized as his _sex hand wave_ , and the giggle that slipped from him unbidden earned him a sharp glare.

“Sorry, sorry,” Gerry said, his eyes still twinkling with mirth. Then, because he couldn’t quite help himself: “Are you just- just _collecting_ aspec friends? Or is it some sort of magnetic pull? Because I’d like to know if I’m a trophy friend or a hapless victim of your non-sexual magnetism.”

The wet sponge Jon threw at him was certainly warranted. It did nothing to wipe the smile from Gerry’s face.

So there’s Tim and Sasha, carrying ninety-five percent of the conversational weight. Martin sits tucked away in a corner, his hands closed around a glass of cola and his mouth curled into a small smile as he watches Tim and Sasha bicker.

(“I don’t drink,” Martin had explained quickly when Gerry’s eyes had found his glass the first time, throwing the words between them like some sort of barricade. Like it was any of Gerry’s business what Martin did or didn’t drink.

It certainly made Gerry’s virgin piña colada a lot less humiliating, though it did nothing to diminish the curling embarrassment he’d felt upon ordering it. So Gerry tipped his head toward his own drink and said, “Me either. Virgin in more ways than one.”

Which was _probably_ not the right thing to say. Oh well.

Martin’s face had gone cherry red, and the laugh that escaped his lips seemed to take him entirely by surprise. “Oh,” he said, sounding slightly strangled. “I- congratulations?”

It certainly wasn’t the most awkward exchange Gerry had ever had. But it was up there.

Gerry took a small sip of his drink and decided that he quite liked Martin Blackwood.)

Gerry sets his drink back down with a grimace and says, quiet enough that only Jon will hear him, “When is the trivia bit meant to start? I’m dying to put my near-encyclopedic knowledge of 20th-century prose to use.”

“Need I remind you,” Jon says without taking his eyes away from Tim and Sasha, “that we are _both_ English majors?”

Gerry knocks his knee against Jon’s under the table. “Guess we’ll just have to see who remembers Dr. Nimeiri’s class better then.”

Jon groans. “I _thought_ we agreed to never speak about that again.”

Gerry gives Jon his best shit-eating grin. “And forget the place where we met and our lives were forever changed? Oh, I would _never._ ”

“ _One,_ ” Jon says, holding up a finger and finally turning to face Gerry. “ _One_ B, Gerry. And it was that _fucking_ class.”

“Jon, nobody got an A in that class. _Nobody._ I barely passed.”

“Yes, well—”

Gerry raises an eyebrow. Jon’s mouth snaps shut and dips into what Gerry could only describe as a _pout._ After a moment, where Jon clearly recalls every other version of this conversation they’ve had and the myriad of insensitive things that Jon has said in quick succession, Jon finally sighs and says, “Fine. Trivia’s in thirty minutes, I believe.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, there’s no need to look so _smug._ ”

It’s about halfway between then and trivia when the conversation finally, inevitably, and quite unfortunately lands squarely on Gerry’s leather-clad shoulders. 

“So,” Tim says, leaning his elbows on the liquor-sticky table and flashing Gerry a conspiratorial grin. “I think it’s high past time we hear all the sordid details of how Jon managed to convince _you_ to give him the time of day.”

“ _Hey,_ ” Jon snaps, giving Tim an impressive glare that bounces harmlessly off Tim’s million-dollar smile.

“Not much to tell,” Gerry says with a shrug. “Switched majors, took a shitty class, and got a _very_ critical peer review on my first draft paper. Had _quite_ an illuminating conversation with said peer reviewer after class that day, actually. Can’t imagine how that evolved into getting coffee.”

“ _You_ asked _me,_ ” Jon says in a sullen voice, looking very much like he’d like to melt into the woodgrains of the seatback behind him.

“That I did,” Gerry concedes. “What can I say, I’ve got a thing for angry red pen and put-upon posh accents.”

“For the _last_ time, it is _not_ put upon!”

Tim’s laughter makes Jon’s lips fold into a pout, and Gerry presses his knee firmly against Jon’s underneath the table. He feels Jon melt against him, just a bit, like a bristling cat brought back to itself by a gentle hand between its ears.

“So, then,” Sasha asks, pushing into Tim’s space as she leans closer to them with an inquisitive glint to her eyes. “Are you two dating?”

“Sasha!” Martin squeaks, his eyes wide as saucers as he looks at her like she’d just suggested they all strip down to their socks or something. If Gerry weren’t so used to the question—albeit not directed at him and Jon before—he might have had a similar expression on his face.

“What?” Sasha says defensively, leaning back slightly and crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s just a question! And a perfectly innocent one at that!”

“Nothing with you is ever _perfectly innocent,_ ” Tim mutters under his breath, which earns him an elbow in the ribs.

Gerry sighs in something close to resignation. He’d been expecting the question, really; Gerry hated the idea of his identity being spread behind his back like some sort of rumor, so he’d asked Jon to keep it private until he got the chance to disclose it himself. It had gotten a bit more complicated when they’d become queerplatonic partners but only because apparently Jon had a chronic inability to do anything halfway, and that included his relationships. Needless to say, Jon had admitted several hours before they’d arrived at the pub that his friends were all convinced that they were dating and that Jon couldn’t figure out how to correct them without explaining their situation in full.

So, then. Gerry’s never been the biggest fan of speaking openly about his romantic preferences—or lack thereof, he supposes—but then Jon’s hand is brushing against his arm, the touch feather-light yet grounding all the same, and Gerry finds that the weight on his chest is all but gone.

“No,” Gerry says. The word doesn’t burn on the way out like he feared it would. “Er. Not romantically, at least.”

It’s less awkward than he thought it might be—putting the threads that run from Jon’s hands to his into words, skirting around textbook definitions for a bit before finally just biting the bullet and rattling them off rapid-fire, even though he hates how impersonal it all sounds and would much rather focus on how he feels when he sees Jon across the quad or how Jon’s fingers feel against his scalp when he brushes his hair or how Jon snores ever so slightly when he sleeps.

In the end, Tim just makes some joke about _friendship premium subscription_ , Sasha sheepishly apologizes for having made assumptions, and the conversation is blissfully cut short by the announcement that trivia will be starting in two minutes.

Gerry’s hand finds Jon’s under the table and squeezes it tightly, just once. A silent _thank you._ The best _I love you_ that Gerry can think to give right now. Jon’s shoulder knocks against Gerry’s in response, and Gerry thinks, just for a moment, about how fucking lucky he is.

They end up losing trivia night— _1967 **is** the correct date,_ Jon kept insisting, even when Tim finally pulled the book up on his phone and informed Jon that he was, in fact, off by a year and was therefore wrong—to Jon’s utter dismay and distress. But the sentiment still stands.

And when Tim grins at Gerry and says, _See you soon!_ , and Sasha follows up with, _Next Thursday for trivia?_ , and Martin pitches in with a quiet, _It was very nice to meet you, Gerry_ , Gerry doesn’t hate the warm, fuzzy feeling that spreads through him at the knowledge that _Jon’s friends like him._

Two cobblestone paths merge into one, the rocks threading together as easily as Jon’s fingers with Gerry’s, and the road ahead looks like nothing but wide-open sky and glittering stars.

**Author's Note:**

> cw:
> 
> \- drinking and alcohol  
> \- implied drug use  
> \- teasing  
> \- assumption that an aro character is allo (corrected and apologized for)
> 
> comments and kudos make my day! if you liked what you read, let me know 💛
> 
> find me on tumblr [@bluejayblueskies](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/)


End file.
